


The Royal Table

by dread_thehalfhanded



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Belly Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Subspace, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29190954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dread_thehalfhanded/pseuds/dread_thehalfhanded
Summary: Roche returns to Vizima after weeks in fields and ditches, eating rations and frogs and Melitele knows what else. Foltest is waiting for him, alone in splendor, with a meal fit for kings and princes. He will not be denied.It is not the first time, oh no, not for this respite brought so close to ritual. But that does not make it any easier to accept.
Relationships: Foltest/Vernon Roche
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	The Royal Table

Snowfall this side of the Yaruga, this time of year?

It was unfair, that’s what it was.

Tucking freezing fingertips into his armpits, Vernon Roche put his head down against the wind, thanking gods and men for the thin strip of cloth guarding his ears from further molestation. Little enough snow fell here in the castle yard, and the wind broke on the outer wall some, but it was still bitter, frozen on the tongue and teeth, stinging cold in the eyes.

Hugging the castle wall, he made his way through the drifts to the side entrance, and paused for a second at the carved door. Inside, it would be warm. Inside was fire, and food, and all the things a soldier misses in the field.

But he shied away. Better to go in the front entrance, where no one would expect the king’s bitch to make a proper entrance. Perhaps he could get ahead of the royal eyes and ears, for once.

Wind bit bitter through his coat as he turned the corner—and at the gate, a messenger found him before the portcullis raised knee-high.

“The king requests your presence, sir!”

“Can’t a man wash up first? I’m not decent.”

That much was true. Mud splattered him ankle to waist, a spray of blood across one skirt if you caught it in the right light. And mail always sat cold and heavy this time of year. Imagine wearing plate like those poor buggers at the main gate.

“No sir, I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

He nodded. It was always urgent.

He passed over the frozen stone bridge, leaving the guard behind, snowflakes falling unheeded over his nose and cheeks. New guards opened the interior doors for him, ushering him inside the warm lap of the castle proper without a word of challenge. If his cheeks flushed—at how they knew, they _knew_ , they had to know—it was the sudden heat.

The carved stairs waited for him, rich with rug and fur against his booted feet, feet so numb he could barely feel the plush fabric sink beneath his tread. With every step, his stride slowed. It wasn’t too late, he could turn back, could run to wash and sup. Just an hour, half, would be enough.

Would be better than—this.

At the top of the stairs, he turned as a homing pigeon to the right, to the engraved door at the end of the hallway. His feet knew the way, and that too, shamed him. This was not the first time. He had been weak so many times before, and perhaps, would be again.

Step by agonizing step, he went, down the empty hall, willing himself to stop, to turn, to run. He stopped only once, to cough the cold out of his lungs into his shoulder.

A moment later, the door at the end of the hall opened, and even as Roche readied himself for a scolding footman, urging him to hurry—and he could not—his king’s head and shoulders appeared in the doorway, gaze keen as a hunting hawk.

“Vernon. There you are. Get in here.”

The harsh tone, the gaze, all said he knew that Roche had taken his time. He felt himself burning, burning with shame, burning in the heat of that golden gaze fixed on him alone.

“Yes, your majesty.”

\---

Inside, the royal dining room was all red velvet and carved wood, unchanged as ever. The heat of the room hit Roche like a physical blow: fire banked high in the fireplace, another roaring at the far side of the room, it was too much. Sweltering, he sweated even as the door shut behind him, even as the scents trapped inside swirled and wrapped around him. Fresh bread, meat with fat heavy on the bone, rich with hours in the pot… He could not bear it.

He fixed his gaze on the whorled patterns of the floor rugs, unable to look up, to see what waited here for him.

“Well,” said his king, guiding him with a firm pressure at the small of his back, ungloved hand burning too against his mail, “Sit down.”

It was not a question.

A tingle in his toes warned him those were waking up. Guided blindly by his king, he went to the table, step by shuffling step, gaze fixed on the blunted tips of his own boots. A mahogany chair waited for him, pulled out from the table with the green velvet cushion brushed and gleaming, the carved armrests polished to shining.

A seat for a nobleman, a duke, a baron—but when Foltest guided him into it, he sat, cheeks flushed and hot.

The king strode to his own seat at the head of the table, and Roche raised still-frozen eyelashes for the briefest of moments to scan the room. Empty, not a trace of servant nor guard, no one to witness his depravity, nor stop him in it. Just once, just once, he’d hoped there might be a page, a maid even, with whom he could lock eyes, and in apparent misery find absolution.

“Vernon,” said Foltest, and his body turned to the voice of his king without a thought.

“Sire.”

The voice that left him was ragged, worn with miles of disuse. Please, he thought, please, this once, show mercy.

“Eat, please,” said Foltest, so gently it hurt to hear. “You are tired.”

He was tired.

Slowly, so slowly, he raised his eyes to the red-gold slash of the tablecloth, the rich wood covered with brocade, and covered again with a thick spread of golden dishes from one end to the other like so many flowers in a crowded field. Every plate heaped, quivering with red jelly, pink-and-white meat dripping with fat, thick brown bread hearty with nuts and fruit. Further down, potatoes rose whipped to a white mound large as a man’s head, beside a battlefield of green shoots, beans, and cream-covered fruits swimming in more sauce.

Not a space on the table remained beyond a single empty silver plate.

Foltest gestured at the intimidating spread with both arms flung wide, and grinned in a way that spelled no mercy.

“It’s all for you, soldier.”

Bowing his head, Vernon Roche reached out for the closest dish, and began to blindly scoop the mounded, creamy contents of some potato concoction onto his plate.

Finally, a command. That, he understood.

\---

He ate for what felt like hours. Steaming pork slices, decadent oatcakes slathered in grease that dribbled off the fine silverware, creamed asparagus and sesame-sauced fish. When he began to finish off one plateful, to grow close to seeing his own face in the shine of the silver, Foltest would silently begin to fill it again with some unsampled delicacy.

It was better like this, commands given and obeyed. He could live in the safe space, that place where he indulged every royal whim, and kept nothing for himself. If Foltest wanted him to eat, then he would—and he did. The first plate went down easy enough, starved and tearing at the rich food like the dog he knew himself to be.

The second, and the third, went down slower, but with the same fervor. Foltest watched him eat, silent eyes following fork and spoon.

In the middle of his fourth heaping plateful, Roche began to slow, and looked up at Foltest with some nervousness. No command was forthcoming, however—instead, the king smiled.

“Do you like it?”

“Mhgh,” mumbled Roche, around a mouthful of thick, nutty bread. He swallowed as if in a dream of deepest pleasure, and shoved the half-chewed bits into his cheeks with his tongue. It was good, so good, after so long without. But his king had asked, and he must answer.

“It is ver— good,” he tried again, fumbling for coherent thought, but getting most of a sentence out.

He blinked at the sound of his own voice, suddenly cognizant of the passing of time, of the emptiness of the dishes around him.

Foltest nodded in approval.

“Continue,” he said, when he saw Roche paused, waiting for permission.

Roche began to eat again, more slowly this time. The trance, once broken, did not swallow him easily again, and he felt suddenly painfully full, repulsed by the thought of further consumption. He picked at a few slivers of dried fruit, wondering suddenly if his team had been fed yet. The thought pricked at him, guilt at having what others did not, and forgetting even for a moment. How could he forget?

So absorbed in this he was, that he barely noticed when Foltest rose from his seat—but he snapped to attention when the king stood so close behind him his breath ghosted over one ear.

“Struggling, Vernon?” He did not wait for an answer. “Let me help.”

He placed a hand on Roche’s shoulder, and slowly followed the arm down, down to the table, where he took the fork from Roche’s hand. He stabbed it into a quivering slice of meat, and brought it slowly to Roche’s mouth.

Roche opened his mouth, and ate. The fork came again, and again, and with the heat of his king behind him, the pressure of his arm and his hand over his own, the trance flowed over him again.

“Eat,” said his king, and so, Roche ate.

Long minutes stretched out this way, and Roche could not have told you the number of their passing. He saw only the silver of the fork, the strength in the hand of his king, and the food on the plate which must be diminished.

This time, however, when he came to, it was to pain, not pleasure. A stabbing pain on his left side made him cry out, and he shook his head at the fork when it came near like a child. Foltest hummed in approval, and put it down. The plate was nearly empty.

“Want more, Vernon?” he said, stroking a hand through his hair, a little roughly.

“No, pl—” he choked. The words wouldn’t come.

He hurt, yes, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” he tried again, near-insensate against the blooming pleasure-pressure in his gut, warring now with that sharp pain. He couldn’t speak, the horror of it swallowing him even as he savored the stretch, the whelming warmth of feeling fed for the first time in so long.

“Oh, Vernon,” Foltest bent, his hands cradling Roche’s head, and breathed over one ear, “I know you want to finish it.”

Roche shivered, a short gasp leaving him involuntarily as Foltest’s hand continued to stroke the back of his neck. The warm hand grounded him, stroked him where he needed it, reminded him he wasn’t to blame, that it wasn’t his fault. He had no choice here.

After all, what man could deny his king?

He took up the spoon, held his breath, and began to eat again. This time, he felt the press of food already inside himself, and worked against it, breathing shallowly as sweat trickled down his forehead. He hoped that Foltest would touch him again. Hoped he would press his cool, cool hand against his burning skin.

Three more bites in, the soft smoothness of the pudding cloying after so much sweet, he stopped short. He couldn’t.

Two spoonfuls remained on the plate, and Foltest did not touch him, did not move from his place at the back of the chair, so close he could feel hot breath ghost over his neck…

Growling, Roche shoveled the last two spoonfuls into his mouth in short succession, before tossing the silver down with a short choak.

“Happy?” he snarled, swallowing.

He felt Foltest’s dark chuckle against his shoulders, the back of his head, throaty and full. Still, he did not touch.

“I am.”

Patting Roche on the shoulder—an electric touch! There, and gone again—Foltest returned to his seat at the head of the table. Now that he could see him, Roche could see that he was grinning, absurdly self-satisfied as he poured his wine, delicate royal features all pulled back in pleasure.

Cursing the man, Roche tried to shift minutely in his chair to take some of the pressure off his gut, but it did not help. The mail was unforgiving, made for a man a little less indulgent—and his belt had lost all its slack. He would loosen it, untie something, for the barest bit more room, but he refused to give Foltest the satisfaction.

Aware of the gaze, the movement, Foltest only grinned wider.

“Feeling a little full, there?”

Roche glared, and put a hand reflexively over his stomach—and was horrified at how solid he felt. It was the mail. Had to be.

“Perhaps I have… Overindulged, slightly,” he said, flushing as he spoke.

It wasn’t the answer Foltest wanted, but it was bad enough, and damned if he would give in just because—

“You enjoy this, don’t you, Vernon?”

His heart stood still.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You can adjust yourself, don’t be uncomfortable for my sake. We’re alone here, it’s okay—” he leaned across the table, close, so close you could see every wrinkle, every fine curve of his nose, his brow, his jaw “—it’s okay to enjoy this.”

His heart hammered in his chest, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t, not while his men shivered in drafty halls over dry bread, while peasants starved in the streets. He had no right.

All the same, he did reach down, down, to the hot-hot heap of flesh of his belly and undo his belt. Foltest watched him scrabble at the leather tie, finally flipping back the leather and sighing as it fell free, and sipped his wine slowly.

Better, oh, that was so much better. Reflexively, Roche ran a hand over his gut, feeling the weight and curve of it. Stuffed full like a Yule pig, he thought, even as the pain of the belt’s constriction began to ease, and he felt less pain, more pleasure. This was better, simply full of good food at the end of a long day’s ride. Any man could chance on this, even a soldier, even a whoreson—

Foltest smiled, golden again as the candlelight caught the glitter of his eyes, and Roche’s thoughts stilled.

If there was a reason why he should not have this, he could not remember it.

He expected Foltest to say something, anything, but instead he simply poured a second glass of wine, and pushed it across the table. Though loth to put anything else in himself, Roche took it and sipped, glad for the cool taste against his tongue.

Foltest watched him hungrily, but still said nothing. They sat like that for a long moment, sipping wine, each watching the movements of the other.

“Show me?” asked Foltest, finally.

Roche knew what he wanted to see.

He nodded, once. His shame, displayed in all its glory. Of course, his king would demand everything from him, not a shred of dignity held back. It was only right. It was _his_ right.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up slowly, weighted down by all that now lay within him. He felt vast, swollen, as though he suddenly took up too much space.

But Foltest was watching.

He turned sideways, one careful step at a time. Shutting his eyes, he brought his hand to his stomach, and released the tight muscles clenched there in one smooth motion. He heard Foltest catch his breath, and, encouraged, kept going.

He palmed over the top of his now-rounded belly first, a light, cursory stroke of hand over stretched metal. If he concentrated, he could feel the little rivets digging into his skin under the cloth. Then, down the sides of his belly, stretching his fingers to reach around the mound, rubbing gently as he went with a reverential gentleness. Finally, he reached underneath, and Roche felt his king’s hand come up to join his.

Foltest moaned, lewd as a new wife, as he reached even lower and found Roche already hard beneath all his layers. At this, a distant part of Roche’s mind sniped irritably, wondering what else he’d expected. The king knew well the weaknesses of his men—how else should he find him, here, like this?

With a scrape of chair against wood, Foltest was suddenly up and wrapped all around him, grasping every part of him that he could reach. Roche opened his eyes to the candlelit gloom, once, but could see nothing of himself over his greedy king who reached and reached, and could not keep his hands from his belly in their strange charade.

Why? He thought, even as a gasp of want caught in his throat. Why me? Why—this?

Yet at Foltest’s searching, eager hand on his thigh, he threw his head back and let his king find his way up his mail and palm him. One hot hand against his cock, the other stroking his overtaxed belly, he pressed back against the warm arms of his lover, his king—

No matter how many times they did this, he thought, eyes screwed shut, clutching like a whore, he could never quite believe it. (Foltest had asked him once if he’d believe it if he put the royal prick up his ass—and then made good on it, but the surrealism of the situation had never quite left him.)

He came quickly with a gut-deep groan, as Foltest brushed his free hand over the sensitive stretched skin of his stomach and rutted his cock against his clothed ass.

“That’s it… That’s it… Love you like this,” Foltest crooned into his ear, and he blushed all over even as he trembled in the aftermath of climax.

When he turned to face his king, he knew what would come next, knew it even before Foltest’s hands dove under his tunic, slipped under his mail and tugged.

“Come to bed? I want to see you.”

Foltest’s face, flushed and hungry, bent down to his, so close he could barely whisper his last surrender—

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> im back on my bullshit. lemme know with any additional tags yall think this needs


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